Highlander's Stolen Wife: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  Mary could see the animal’s eyes now. They were small and deep-set. The ears were long and broad. She gulped when she saw the well-developed canine teeth, protruding from its mouth. The tusks glistened as the behemoth advanced with unrestraint. It was going to get her. There was no escape. If Mary tried to slip down the small incline to the stream, the boar would follow her and probably crush her with its weight.

  A few more paces separated them. The fear in her blood enhanced her vision and honed her senses. Everything on the animal’s form was as looking through a magnifying glass. She had tunnel vision – sort of super-human in its intensity – each bristle and drop of water on its back was so close that she felt as if she could reach out and touch them. The last Mary heard as the boar filled up her entire field of vision was a high-pitched, piercing cry coming from the beast’s mouth and then blackness overcame her.

  “Sassenach, are ye alright? Yer a brave one. That bastard pig nearly gutted ye.”

  “What? Where… am I?”

  Mary lay on the ground close to the slight drop that led to the burn. She tried to move, but her body would not respond.

  “Easy now, lass. There’s no need to tire yerself. Here have some of this.” Alastair held out his skin with water. “Drink,” he ordered.

  Mary drank gratefully. “What’s that?” she croaked out when she had finished. There was a pungent smell hanging in the air. It wafted in her direction from a spot nearby.

  “That’s probably the stench of the boar. Not to worry. I killed the blighter.” Alastair chuckled. “He was a big bastard I can tell ye. Nearly got ye, he did.”

  Mary sat up with a lurch. She swiveled her head to the left and right. That was when she saw it. Lying a few feet in front of her lay the prickled mound of the boar. Its tongue protruded from its mouth, hanging lopsidedly over a tusk. The one eye she saw glowered at her as if it was still alive. “Is he…”

  “Dead… aye, he is. No thanks to those two idle scunners.” Alastair pointed to Mungo and Murtagh who came toward them at a jog. He turned back to Mary. “Lass, yer fine now. Come let me help ye up.”

  Mary let him lift her to her feet. For a moment, she felt dizzy and thought that she was going to fall back down. Alastair steadied her and drew her closer. It felt good to be in his arms. Unlike what she had become accustomed to with the Scots, he smelt good – almost fresh. His bodily aroma overcame her, surmounting the stench of the dead boar. It was like nothing she had ever smelt before. She could not help herself inhaling his masculinity that seared her brain with draughts of healthy virility. It made her feel lightheaded again; so potent was its inviting force.

  “What happened here?” asked Mungo when he reached their position.

  “I sticked it to him, that’s what.”

  “Aye, I can see that. But the dogs – they were far ahead. There should not have been one here.”

  Alastair shook his head. “Ye of all people should ken that these beasts are crafty. He probably snuck back behind the sounder. The dogs will be heading that way.” He pointed into the thickets.

  “Mm, well then, the Laird will be happy ye got one. And in the nick of time, I see.” Mungo indicated with his head at Mary who could not fail to see the worry on his face. The dead animal laid a mere footstep away from her.

  “Ye got him with one throw of the spear. Ye must’ve pierced the heart to kill it on the spot like that,” said Murtagh, joining in the conversation.

  “Aye, one lucky throw, that,” said Alastair.

  “Nah, yer a natural – always were.” Mungo looked at Mary. “Ye, lass, are the luckiest Sassenach about. Not many men could’ve made that throw.” He nodded and pointed appreciatively at the thick shank of the spear that protruded from the boar’s carcass. “We’ll be having a feast tonight. And ye, lass, will humor Alastair with a kiss.”

  Despite feeling woozy, Mary blushed crimson. She snuck a little look in Alastair’s direction. For the first time since the feast, she saw him beaming at her. She realized that she liked his smile. It was a rare occasion; usually, he would scowl and appear serious. Before she could stop herself, she stepped forward and took him into her arms. “Thank you, Alastair. I thought I was about to die. You saved my life,” she whispered into his ear.

  Alastair pulled her to his body. For the first time, he felt right. The woman in his arms was all he ever wanted. He had tried to resist his emotions, but they had only gotten worse since the night of the banquet. His betrothal to Aila was like a death sentence; a deep moat that separated him from what he knew was his destiny.

  Without thinking, he lifted her chin. She did not resist. He hesitated. Her beauty held him in a vice. He felt as if he could see into the depths of her soul, her dark brown eyes acting like a gateway. He felt protective of her as he watched her lips shudder. They were so close and inviting. He waited a moment longer, and when she did not look away, he kissed her.

  Mary automatically moved into the contact. She had no control over her body. It felt right, like something out of one of her sister’s ramblings about love. As his tongue entered her mouth, she, at first, froze. Yet his eager plundering soon battered down the last vestiges of her resistance. She lashed back at him with her tongue tentatively. It felt strange, and yet, it was decidedly powerful, birthing warmth in her stomach that urged her on. Mary released herself to him, but despite the heady sensations washing over her body, a dark presence hung over her.

  “Stop! What are you doing!? You are to be married. I can’t.” Mary pulled away vehemently.

  Alastair stared back at her with confusion playing in his eyes. Before he could speak, the sound of men approaching made him turn to see.

  “I see ye got one, son. Well done. Hamish speared another one in the glen up yonder. Time to get back and feast on the spoils,” shouted the Laird as he approached on his thickset legs, protruding from under his plaid.

  Alastair did not respond. All he could do was behold Mary. The sight of her bewitched him. Her taste and scent still lingered. He knew the kiss had meant something. It opened up places within him that he never thought existed. Both of them dealt with their emotions in their separate ways. Yet, two things bound them: first confusion and then happiness that sort of flowed through their blood like a leaf in a stream.

  “Well, Sassenach, that was some kiss, and more than this one here deserved,” said Mungo, patting Alastair on the back.

  Murtagh winked at her. “Never thought an English lass could be so hot-blooded. Ye rival even my Caitlin with yer ardor.” He sniggered suggestively.

  “We head back to the borough,” commanded the Laird, breaking the spell that held Mary, Alastair, Mungo, and Murtagh.

  “Tell us again, son. How’d ye do it?” asked the Laird from the head of the table.

  They sat in the Great Hall. Unlike the night of the banquet, only the men who partook in the hunt were present. Not even the Lady attended, leaving Mary as the only woman.

  “Ye all ken, Alastair, when there’s a lass involved. It’s the only time he can aim with his spear and hit something,” said Murtagh.

  Hoots of laughter and more comments followed this remark.

  “Aye, best if Aila hears nothing of it.”

  “From what I’ve heard she’s come up on the short end of the stick. The honorable Alastair won’t even couple with her before the wedding,” said Hamish, scowling at Alastair.

  Mary blushed. She felt quite out of place in this predominantly masculine domain. Much of the conversation so far had been about the happenings between man and woman in the privacy of their chambers. She had come to know the sexual behavior of a great many of the clan’s women from the detailed stories imparted by the men.

  “If she were my betrothed, I would not be able to keep my hands off her, fine lass like that,” said Hamish, continuing his point.

  “Why don’t ye marry her then?” hissed out Alastair.

  “I would, but the Laird promised her to ye. Fine waste that was.”

  “Enough,�
�� shouted the Laird, pounding the flat of his hand on the table. He turned his large head in the direction of his son who sat to his right. “I am confident my boy will do his duty to his Laird and his clan. It starts tonight.” He patted Alastair on the back. “Slàinte, laddie. May ye have many strong and healthy bairns with her.”

  Reluctantly, Alastair tapped his tankard with his father’s. He knew better than to say anything to contradict him. His time was running out though. He would have to bed Aila soon lest he be the talk of the clan. Next to cowardice and duplicity, a lack of enthusiasm in the bedchamber was the worst slander a man could have hurled upon him.

  As he drank, he peered over the rim of the mug. Mary looked radiant in her Scottish clothing. Her silky red hair was neatly tied up on her head with ribbons. The vest she wore strained in the area where her bosom was. Her neck was the color of white porcelain, swaggering the same smoothness. The expression on her face was serious, making her look even more appealing. The way her mouth pouted enhanced the little indent on her chin. For many, this attribute might be considered a blemish. Not for Alastair, he just wished he could run his lips over it.

  She had not said a word to him during the entire ride back to the castle. She had given so much of herself to him only to snatch it away again. It was like having his heart ripped out of his chest while watching her stamp it into the ground with her foot. Was what happened real or had he imagined it? If it did happen then had Mary meant it? Or was it just the last traces of adrenaline dictating her actions.

  Alastair could still taste the sweetness of her lips. His tongue tingled with the memory of hers against it. It had been the foremost kiss in his life. He had never wanted it to end so abruptly. In essence, he had not wanted it to end at all. Mary had held him close as if he was her man. Looking at her now, so close and yet so far away, he wondered whether it was how Tristan had felt when Iseult was taken from him.

  In Alastair’s case, there was no king in the way, only a lord who would never sanction his eldest son’s union with a Sassenach. His father would probably go so far as to cross him out of the succession were he ever to go against his will. Thinking about it was for naught anyway. Mary did not care for him. She may no longer despise him quite as strongly, but that was still far from wanting to be intimate with him again. Also, she wouldn’t be around forever. The Laird had already written a letter to Mary’s father in an approach to open up negotiations for a ransoming. It wouldn’t be long now.

  “Well then, Faither. I think it is time for me to do my duty.” Picking up his tankard, Alastair got to his feet. “All that hunting has got my blood up, and the flesh of wild boar has given me strength. So, if ye would excuse me, I have a betrothed to hump.”

  The clansmen guffawed and shouted their approval.

  “Aye, about time too.”

  “We’ll be listening in on yer efforts.”

  “Aye, if we don’t hear the lass screaming yer name for the rest of the night, we’ll think yer a walloping bampot.”

  “Be sure to slap her bahookie – they love that.”

  The only two people in the group not venting their suggestions and ribaldry were Hamish and Mary. The former glowered at Alastair, and the latter’s lips trembled.

  It is time, Mary thought. It was already late, and she was certain the men would continue their drinking for a while yet until they passed out where they sat. There would never be a more perfect occasion for what she had in mind.

  She looked at Alastair closely. It puzzled her for he did not look like a man who was on his way to do something most of his sex found the most enjoyable pastime next to fighting, drinking and eating. It was as if he was mounting the steps to the gallows. A part of her did not want him to sleep with Aila. She wanted him for herself. But why had she pushed him away earlier that day? Her actions stood in direct contrast with her heart.

  It was true; the kiss had been magical. Mary had read and heard that kissing was a wonderful thing when done with someone you cared about. However, she had never expected it to be quite so powerful. Did that mean that Alastair was special to her? Had the kiss been proof of that? It couldn’t be. He was engaged, and she despised him for what he did to her. Then why did she feel as if errant feathers tickled the insides of her stomach with soft lashes? Why did she feel so morose as she watched him walk away from the table without one look in her direction?

  “Yer going the wrong way, Alastair. Yer chamber’s that way,” said Murtagh.

  “Aye, I ken. First I need a little air and some more whiskey in my belly. Nothing like it to get ye going. Don’t wait around for me, I’ll be plowing away in no time.”

  “That’s the spirit, my son. Yer mother will be happy when she has some grandchildren to call her own. Don’t stay out too long. Ye know what the cold does to yer ardor. Ye wouldn’t want to deprive yer betrothed of the full majesty of yer manhood.”

  Hilarity erupted around the table and tankards were lifted into the air as the clansmen shouted more lewd suggestions.

  “Na, I won’t, Faither. I’ll be sure to keep my kilt wrapped around my legs to abstain the draft.

  With those words, Alastair left the Great Hall behind him. He could still hear the men’s raucous laughter as he stepped out of the keep.

  The clinking of metal could be heard in the darkness. The scuffling of busy feet and then silence again. A few heartbeats past until the person resumed the task. One of the horses whickered and scuffed its hoof on the straw. More clinking followed by the thump of a heavy object on a solid surface – jingling as a strap was pulled tight and fastened.

  The sound of a lone horse’s hooves could be heard in the stable in the village and the creak of a door as it opened and shut. With a grunt, the rider mounted the horse, urging it forward into a trot.

  It was a full moon. Above Mary’s head, the silvery orb provided her with ample light to find her way in the darkness. The stars added their luminance in a bid to outdo their celestial neighbor. It was a beautiful night that spoke of good fortune and success in the making. Mary was in no way as superstitious as the Scots, but she still believed in divine intervention. What power could it be other than God giving her the strength of will not to waver?

  For over two months now, Mary had planned every detail of her escape. The boar hunt and the dinner that followed only provided her with a good opportunity to leave sooner. Originally, Mary had wanted to depart a few nights hence when the clan celebrated the Laird’s birthday. She could’ve waited, but something inside her made her restless. Mary needed to get away, now more than ever.

  She had planned her route during the many walks she took in and around the town. She would exit the municipality and head south, straight home, for England. Her knapsack was full of oats, dried meat, bannocks and some fruit. She had a long knife on her person and enough water to last her well into the next day. One thing that never ran short in the Highlands was water. There was a stream at nearly every turn.

  An extra plaid was rolled up and fastened to the saddle behind her. Murtagh had told her that the best way to stay warm during cold nights was to wet it a little and roll the body up in it. The heat of the body got trapped inside, creating humid warmth. Mary was prepared. She had thought it all through with meticulous afterthought. All that remained was not to get caught.

  “Where might ye be going, Sassenach?”

  It couldn’t be. Mary froze in the saddle. Had he been following her this entire time? The figure of a man on horseback drew up beside her. Mary peered in his direction. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m coming with ye, that’s what,” said Alastair with a grin on his face.

  “So, you are not going to stop me?”

  He shrugged. “Nah, why? It was me who dragged ye up here in the first place. I think I owe it to ye to take ye back to ye father. I have been thinking about it for a while now. It just didn’t seem necessary as of late.”

  Mary frowned. “Why’s that?”

  “Because my father wrote to ye
rs. There will be a reply any day now.”

  “He wants to ransom me off?”

  “Aye. We could always go back. It would be a far safer and a more lucrative prospect.”

  “More lucrative for your father, you mean. No, I am not staying. And you are not coming with me.”

  Mary urged her mount into a canter. Already, they were outside of the town and heading in a south-easterly direction.

  “May I ask where ye are going?” asked Alastair, riding up beside her.

  Mary scrutinized him and his large steed. There was no way she could outpace him on her horse. Also, she remembered him to be a very accomplished horseman. Furthermore, the man grew up in these lands, so he knew them like the back of his hand. She had no choice. She would have to put up with him. Yet, somehow the prospect did not seem all that unappealing. Having a man around, especially one such as Alastair, would be comforting.

  “To England of course.”

  Alastair chuckled. “I gathered that. Let me rephrase. I meant in what direction. It appears you are aiming south. I do not think that is a good idea.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it is the first place they will look when they find out that ye are gone in the morning.”

  “I see. You might have a point. What do you suggest?”

  “East until the coast. From there, we ride south to Inverness. We can sleep in a warm bed and eat a good meal before setting off again.”

  Mary pleated her brow. What Alastair said made sense. The clansmen were sure to assume she would be heading in the direction of the Anglo-Scottish frontier. They would never guess that she would take such a diversionary route. “Alright. I agree. I just want to know how you found out about my leaving?”